


Ius Primae Noctis

by PNGuin



Series: Dux Bellorum [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec Lightwood Deserves Nice Things, Alec Lightwood Loves Magnus Bane, Alec Lightwood Needs A Hug, Alec Lightwood-centric, Alec deserves better than this, Alec is a mess, Boys In Love, Insecure Alec Lightwood, Internalized Homophobia, Izzy is a good sister, M/M, Magnus Bane Loves Alec Lightwood, Magnus is a good boyfriend, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Stuttering Alec Lightwood, The Lightwoods are Hispanic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 22:10:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11815200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PNGuin/pseuds/PNGuin
Summary: How do you ask your boyfriend to have sex when the very thought of it makes you feel ashamed?





	Ius Primae Noctis

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings and triggers are listed in the tags. Please check them if you are concerned with any potentially harmful situations.
> 
> I'm setting this story between episodes 2.06 and 2.07
> 
> Aside from that, I'm sorry in advance.
> 
> Dedicated to that tiny pathetic thing I once called my soul. Your sacrifice will be remembered.
> 
> Edit 6 November, 2018: went through and changed the tense from past to present

Searing fingers drag across his ribs, tapping out an idle melody unknown to him. Fire laces up his skin like chain lightning, meeting at his heart with a shuddering breath. Lips, soft and wet and open-mouthed, flutter along the hollow of his collarbone and settle right on the beat of his pulse point.

A moan, deep and primal and quaking, bursts past the safety of his lips, spilling into the sweat-thickened air and scattering around him. There’s an echo, a response to his call in a voice that is not his own, matching each throaty groan with another above him, two harmonious notes that together release a chord which pulls at something tight and tense within himself.

Smooth golden skin is stretched taut over a toned stomach. Strong arms band around him, holding him steady and secure in a way he has long since forgotten. Dark lined eyes gleam, bright and all-encompassing, tracing every inch of his exposed skin with a hungry spark that sends shivers of pleasure skittering down his spine.

_“Alexander.”_

There is an ache buried deep in his chest, a gaping emptiness like the distant _plop_ of a single droplet of water in a forgotten cavern. The coldness that lingers around his heart wars with the flames of passion that lick at his skin. He longs to feel the fire scorch him and banish the ice that has crystalized within. He has a strong belief that, if he just clenches his stomach tight enough, maybe the desolation will fade.

Hips roll against his, the delicious friction drawing another ragged gasp from him. His fingers cling to slick skin with a fervor that both awes and terrifies him, as if holding on is the only way to ride out the buzzing in his ears. Underneath his skin is a distinct fuzziness, what white noise would feel like if such a sensation could exist.

He’s being filled up in time with the rocking and the moans that resound in his ears. If only he could grab the other person and hold them even closer, absorb them into himself so that there are no more hollows carved out from him, so that the warmth and the security and the intensity that they share could be sealed away, like fireflies left flickering in a glass jar.

But there is still the chill ghosting over his flesh, frosting the sweat on his skin and freezing him into pure ice, until each thrust sends cracks spiraling through him. Fine as spider webs, silver fault lines traversing his body, the soul-deep agony of nothingness spreading so that not even the other figure can warm him any longer.

The pressure of heat versus cold, the struggle to fill a void that only grows larger each second, a vast black hole that devours and devours until he is just a shell of existence. It is all too much.

_Too much, too much, too mu-_

Alec bolts awake.

His heart pounds out a staccato rhythm in his ears, stumbling over itself in an attempt to catch up with his breath. Every lungful of air he forces out stings like the crisp breeze of winter, drying out his throat and seeping to the pit of his stomach and the core of his bones. A chill that festers out of sight, untouchable to blankets or hot drinks.

But while he withers like a frozen tundra inside, his skin burns against the open air. He’s drenched in sweat; it traps his hair to his face and makes his clothes and sheets lay flush to his skin. His body is all tangled up in the sheets, and he struggles to yank himself free and swing his legs over the side of the bed, resting his bare feet on the cold hardwood flooring. The stark contrast between the chill settled in his chest and the heat of adrenaline upon his flesh causes an abrupt wave of goosebumps to appear over his arms. Beyond his uncomfortable temperature issues and his attempts to level out his breathing, however, comes the most pressing matter.

Alec is painfully hard.

His member rests heavily between his legs and he plants his elbows on his knees and hides his face in his hands. Even in the sanctity of his private room, far from the prying eyes and ears of other Institute residents, Alec feels the familiar wave of shame and mortification crash into him, setting him adrift and alone to his thoughts. Threading his fingers in his bedraggled hair, he sucks in great gasps of air and holds them for five seconds before blowing out slowly.

Typically, this technique works to calm him down and dispel any unwanted hard-ons. But the intrusive thoughts lingering from his dream refuse to leave. They crawl under his skin, a parasitic reminder of all he can’t have. He forces out a choked huff of breath that sounds more like a sob and he tries to think of _anything_ but the dream. The putrid stench of demons, the fierce burn of an infected wound, even dead puppies. Try as he might, his body is having none of it. It’s as if the dream has been imprinted into his brain, carving out its own resting place that he will never be able to shake it loose from.

 _Magnus_. That’s all he can think of, like a reverential mantra repeated in the beating of his heart. _Magnus, Magnus, Magnus._ The light scent of sandalwood and spice mixes with sweat, the slide of fingertips against toned muscle, the beauty of two bodies moving in tandem. Alec can’t help but yearn for the warlock’s presence, to feel the static-like prickling of his magic in the air, the scratch of his stubble dragging against his skin, to cling tightly to something so _real_ and _tangible_ that it makes his heart ache. He longs for Magnus to touch him where none ever have before, for Magnus to sink inside of him and hold him close and maybe never let go.

Alec has never felt like this before. Sure, he’s known that he’s attracted to men, has thought that he once held such feelings for his own _parabatai_. But even then, even through the years of his adolescent pining after Jace, never did he dream of such things and wake up horny and desperate for release.

Without even realizing it, Alec slides one of his hands under the waistband of his boxer briefs and wraps long, calloused fingers around himself. He lets out a short huff of air and swallows thickly. An experimental tug has Alec jerking his hips mindlessly and hissing out a strangled gasp. He allows himself to close his eyes and imagine that his fingers are a little shorter, less calloused, and adorned with rings. If he concentrates enough, he can almost feel hot breaths along his collarbone, up his neck, against the shell of his ear.

Then there are phantom hands on him, clawing, pulling, dragging, icy and treacherous. Instantly, all thoughts of Magnus - and what warmth they provide - flee, leaving behind the empty feelings of disgust and shame. Like a late snowstorm that blows in, devastating all of the early spring growth, the chilling ghost fingers that dig into his flesh and freeze him to the bone.

He rips his hand out of his briefs and away from himself, before launching from the bed and retreating into the bathroom. He doesn’t even bother turning on a light before he’s yanking all of his clothes off and is stepping under a spray of freezing water. Alec barely even feels the cold, so similar is it to the yawning iciness that nestles deep within his chest. His stomach is clenched and his throat feels tight; the impending urge to vomit is growing.

When he can no longer take the sting of the shower, he stumbles out and forces himself to tug on workout clothes. It takes far longer than it should, thanks in large part to the uncontrollable tremor in his hands; he knows that it isn’t from being cold. He hopes that the added layer will help the frigid feeling along his skin dissipate. (It doesn’t.) Alec just feels the hands grip him, smoothing over his shoulders, raking into his hair, caressing his cheeks with a false sense of familiarity. Phantom touches, nonexistent but still so very real to him.

He flees to the training room, not even caring that it isn’t yet four in the morning. A least it will let him have some much needed privacy, a chance to suffer through his mounting self-loathing in solitude before anyone can notice it. Between the hunt for Valentine, the tension of Aldertree’s leadership, and Jace and Clary’s continuous recklessness, Alec doesn’t have time to deal with yet another added stress.

But that doesn’t stop him from thinking about it, even as he pounds into one of the Institute’s punching bags until his knuckles bleed.

He wonders, idly, if Magnus would be offended by Alec having such a dream, of Alec wanting to touch himself to the thought of his boyfriend. Or is that something that happens to most couples? Is it normal for attraction to manifest like that? Alec doesn’t know, and he certainly isn’t going to _ask_ anyone about it either. The only people he trusts enough with such a question are Jace and Izzy, and neither of the two would ever let him live it down.

He just…doesn’t know what to _do_. He knows that he cares about Magnus, and that he is attracted to Magnus. Alec knows that he enjoys spending time together, whether they are traveling to different cities and walking around or just sitting on Magnus’ couch, leaning against each other and talking. And Alec knows that he _definitely_ likes kissing Magnus.

That’s as far as they’ve gotten, however. Making out on Magnus’ couch until Alec’s hands tremble and his heart trips over its own beating. (Or until Jace accidentally walks in and interrupts them.) But Alec doesn’t know where to go from there. Is he supposed to jump right to sex? Or is it something to ease into by touching each other first?

Alec has absolutely no clue. Considering his first _kiss_ was with the High Warlock of Brooklyn at his own botched wedding (to a _different person_ , no less) in front of his parents and many of the most important members of the Clave mere _weeks_ ago, perhaps this isn’t an unexpected problem. It isn’t as if Alec has ever been given an indication on how to pursue a relationship, most certainly not one with a male warlock.

While Alec is considered pretty intelligent as far as tactics and warfare go, he would be the first to admit that his own emotional understanding is limited. He has, after all, spent the entirety of his life surrounded by the equally emotionally stunted shadowhunters of the New York Institute. Even so, Alec at least knows himself well enough to realize that he does _want_ to take the next step with Magnus, regardless of how ready he may have be for it. That just leaves the most important detail unattended.

How do you ask your boyfriend to have sex when the very thought of it makes you feel ashamed?

* * *

 

Alec decides that he’s never leaving Magnus’ couch ever again. His muscles scream with protest at even the slightest movement and, although he previously applied an _iratze_ , his wound from earlier still has a persistent tenderness to it. After a day of running around and hunting an _eidolon_ demon, laying on Magnus’ couch and eating Thai food – straight from Thailand, of course – is the best way to relax.

He slouches further into the plush leather of the sofa and lets out a quiet sigh, bringing a bite of his _som tam_ to his mouth. His shoulder twinges sharply with the movement, even as he hums out his appreciation for the meal. Magnus, however, is not so easily fooled and he immediately sets his own food off to the side.

“Your shoulder is still bothering you.” It’s a statement and not a question, but Alec still gives a reluctant nod as Magnus spreads a gentle hand over the offending appendage. “Want me to kiss it better?” he puckers his lips comically, but the look in his eyes is serious.

No matter how casually Magnus suggests the use of his magic, Alec knows better. The shadowhunter isn’t the only one that had a long, tiring day, and taking advantage of Magnus’ magic is the last thing that Alec ever wants to do. “I’m fine,” he assures his boyfriend, grinning despite himself. “Besides, pain is a good teacher.”

“Ah,” the warlock relents, clearly not satisfied with the answer but not wanting to press the matter, “and what great lesson did we learn today?”

“Don’t take Fray out into the field,” Alec mutters around another mouthful of food.

Magnus lets out a chuckle, but thankfully drops the subject.

They both know that it’s not a lesson Alec needs to learn, but Alec has a terrible habit of taking all wounds as a personal failure. He has no love for the redheaded girl and would not have taken her on patrol if not for Aldertree’s orders: _the Fairchild girl needs in-field training, but we can’t trust Valentine’s son enough to send them together._ Which had subsequently led to Jace asking that Alec keep her safe. And then the two of them had spent all day chasing a wily _eidolon_ demon until they had cornered it at some retail store. Where Clary had promptly ignored all of Alec’s cues and, between Clary’s lack of experience and Alec’s lack of sleep, had resulted in him taking a blow that had been intended for the girl.

(To Clary’s credit, she had then assisted in killing the demon and had at least had the good graces to apologize profusely to Alec and agree to an increase in training with Izzy.)

But Alec doesn’t want to think about the redhead. He just wants to finish his delicious food and fall asleep on Magnus’ couch, and maybe not get up the next morning. As if sensing his boyfriend’s exhaustion, Magnus swipes his food before it can spill from his loosening grasp and sets it off to the side. He relaxes further against the sofa, drawing Alec closer so that the younger man can rest his head in the crook of Magnus’ neck. The fluffy blanket that’s perpetually folded up on the couch is snagged by Magnus and carefully draped over the two of them. Between the food in his stomach, the blanket over him, and his boyfriend’s arms tight around him, Alec feels such a profound affection in his heart that it beats back the memories of the coldness from earlier.

“Should I send _‘thank you’_ flowers to Clary for giving me such an adorably sleepy boyfriend today?” Magnus teases, carding his fingers through the younger man’s messy hair.

“I’m not adorable,” he murmurs back, trying to sound stern but failing horribly.

There is, however, a hidden question in Magnus’ joke. An unspoken one that crackles between them nonetheless. Alec hums, content under Magnus’ ministrations, his own hands idly rubbing small circles against the skin of Magnus’ back. Magnus has given him an out; Alec can just agree that his exhaustion is from his patrol with Clary, he can avoid mentioning the dream that still lingers in the dredges of his mind. But is that what he wants? Isn’t this something that needs to be discussed? The want and the shame, two sides of the same coin in Alec’s case, never one without the other.

“I had an odd dream last night,” he finds himself admitting quietly. “After I woke up from it, I couldn’t get back to sleep.” But then all the words dry up, and Alec doesn’t know how to articulate what that hollowness inside his chest feels like, or how he longs for Magnus to chase it away, or how his own mind is a traitor to his heart.

Magnus, thankfully, doesn’t push any further than Alec is willing to go. He presses a chaste kiss into Alec’s hair and tightens his arms. It’s an innocent gesture, but Alec’s mind is consumed with memories of the dream. He wants to know what Magnus sounds like panting beneath him, wants to know how his ring adorned hands would feel on him. Alec _wants._

Suddenly, all traces of exhaustion evaporate and Alec is hungrily nipping at his boyfriend’s lips. Magnus is surprised for all of two seconds before diving eagerly into the kiss, pressing more fully against Alec’s body until all Alec can feel is the couch at his back and Magnus around him. Drawing back, Magnus licks and sucks a searing trail along the jut of Alec’s collarbone and up his neck.

A staggered groan slips unchecked past Alec and he tightens his grip on Magnus’ shirt. He nearly pulls away, a hot rush of embarrassment flooding his cheeks, but if how Magnus shudders and curls his fingers into Alec’s hair is any indication, the warlock is positively thrilled by the reaction.

Alec allows himself to slip away. There, awash in the soft glow of the lights, wrapped in a blanket and Magnus’ arms, nothing matters. Not the mundanes and their cars rumbling past the building, not the demons that crawl and slither with murder in their eyes, not the constant rush and pressure of the Institute. In this one singular moment, Alec can forget the stress, he can forget the coldness that weighs down his limbs, he can cling to Magnus as if he’s the torch that can set him ablaze. He wants more, _more, mo-_

A hand trails up his inner thigh and Alec flinches.

Everything stutters to an abrupt end. Alec recoils fully, disentangling his arms in a rush. The coldness is back. Icy hands card through his hair, skitter up his legs, caress him at the most private parts of himself. They aren’t Magnus’ hands. They’re phantoms, shadows, figments of his own mind’s conjuring. But the mere memory of their touch still makes Alec feel violated and alone.

“Alexander?” Magnus breathes, his voice soft and gentle even as he stays an arm’s length back.

Alec can barely think of anything beyond the white noise roaring in his ears. Hi hands are shaking, his eyes sting, and he can’t seem to get a big enough breath. That chill is back, seeping deep into his bones. He feels hollow inside, like someone has carved out his heart and lungs. His vision is going dark. He needs to breathe. Why isn’t he breathing?

“Alexander!” Distant now, like an echo in a tunnel. It’s Magnus. Alec knows this. The hand is Magnus’, the voice is Magnus’. So why can’t Alec calm down? Why can he only think of-

_‘That’s a good boy, Alec. Such a bright and beautiful boy, aren’t you? And you’re smart enough to know we can’t talk about this, right, Alec?’_

Something grabs his hand and he tries to yank it back, but between the cold weighing down his limbs and the panic lacing his blood, he can’t do anything about it. A voice reaches him, muffled as if through snow or static. _“Breathe with me, Alexander,”_ it says, “ _in and out. You’re safe.”_

He desperately latches onto the voice, clinging to it as if it’s a lifeline and trying valiantly to follow what it says. In and out. Breathe. Alec slowly becomes aware that his hand is held flush against a chest, that he’s breathing in time to the steady rhythm he can feel under his fingertips. In and out.

 _Magnus_. It’s Magnus’ hand laying over his own, Magnus’ breathing that he’s mimicking, Magnus’ calming presence just waiting patiently beside him, letting Alec cling to him as they weather the storm. Magnus, who takes him all over the world just to get street food, who is always surprised when Alec gives him silly little gifts. Magnus is there, Magnus is _safe._

Alec draws in a deep breath, not choking on it this time, and lets it out in an aggrieved sigh. He’s folded in on himself, bent over with his free hand and his head dangling between his knees. There’s that lingering coldness and the brush of hands haunting him. He fears that if he breathes out, the air will cloud and reveal the iciness that grows within. Where his hand is pressed against Magnus’ chest, there’s a point of warmth, a trace of comfort that he wants to draw close and let beat back the chill.

“Alexander,” Magnus repeats, calm but firm. Alec can’t help the miniscule flinch at the intrusion on the silence. He doesn’t need to see Magnus’ expression to know how his eyes soften and his lips pinch at the corners. “What’s wrong?”

From where he’s collapsed in on himself, Alec suddenly feels small and insignificant. But mostly Alec feels _dirty_. He doesn’t know how Magnus can stand to sit there next to him, cradling him as if he’s some pathetic child still scared of the dark. Magnus doesn’t realize that Alec is nothing more than some tainted little thing, a broken toy tossed to the side and forgotten. Magnus isn’t supposed to see this; _no one_ is supposed to see this. It’s just some meaningless memories from a time that no longer matters, shoved into a nondescript box and locked away somewhere Alec never has to think about.

“Sorry,” he hears himself whispering, the word sounding hollow and meaningless. His hand, trapped against Magnus, suddenly seems to burn. He withdraws it and clenches it into a fist to stop the tremor from showing. A deep sense of shame settles heavy in his stomach. He thinks that he might throw up, but he knows it isn’t from any of the Thai food. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. Alec doesn’t know who he’s talking to. Is he apologizing to the boy that he hasn’t been in so long? Or to Magnus, for giving him a boyfriend that can’t love him like he deserves?

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Magnus responds immediately. But how can he say so with such assurance, not knowing that gut-wrenching ache buried in Alec’s chest, that searing agony of lust and shame that he feels? “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing.” The lie is ash on his tongue. “I’m fine,” his voice comes out stronger. It’s a familiar excuse, one that his tongue can repeat on mere muscle memory. He’s _fine_. He knows how to swallow back the guilt and disgust and shame; he’s spent all his life shoving it deep down, into the cavern that’s grown in place of his heart.

Before he understands what he’s doing, Alec is standing and distancing himself. His knees wobble, his head spins, and his vision blurs. It takes too long to realize that it’s because of the tears swimming in his eyes. He furiously rubs them away and turns toward the door.

“I need to- I have to get back to the Institute,” he mutters out.

Magnus, close behind him even as Alec retreats, raises a hand with the intent to grab his boyfriend’s arm. Alec flinches before they can make contact, and he doesn’t think he will ever forget the look of confusion, worry, and despair in Magnus’ dark eyes. He longs to have Magnus’ arms around him, for the warlock to fill those hollow parts of himself and hold him together, broken pieces and all. Alec tries to remember the strength he had found to kiss Magnus at his botched wedding to Lydia, tries to beat back the acid in his throat and just _tell_ Magnus.

But he’s a coward, and he’s weak, and if he tells anyone then they will know just how cowardly and weak he has always been.

Alec tears away and flees from the loft before he lets that flicker of raw emotion in Magnus’ eyes stop him. He runs down the steps and crashes past doors until he’s panting for breath on the curb. He swallows and forces the bile back and does his best to forget how devastated Magnus looked as Alec ran away. Maybe now Magnus will understand, will know how pathetic Alec is. Maybe now Magnus will find someone who won’t pile more baggage onto him, maybe now Magnus can be happy without him. Maybe he will stay away and Alec can retreat back into hiding all his horrid, unwanted feelings and no one will have to mutter about _Alec Lightwood and his shameful habits_ anymore.

How can you let someone love you when you can’t even love yourself?

* * *

 

For all that the New York Institute is the headquarters of highly-trained nephilim, it is remarkably easy to sneak out of. This is something that Alec learned at a young age. Or - to be more precise - something that Jace and Izzy learned at a young age, and that Alec ended up unwittingly tagging along for, whether for unauthorized demon hunting or club hopping. By the time Alec was sixteen, the three of them had nearly five foolproof escape routes, combinations of the windows that were easiest to open, the flying buttresses best suited to use as impromptu ladders, which sections of the fence creaked the least. But Alec, in his frantic haste to flee from Magnus’ loft, has forgotten the trio’s greatest adolescent downfall.

Sneaking back _into_ the Institute is impossible.

It’s past midnight, meaning that the Institute is operating under a tightly restricted and efficient full crew, and that Alec will have to be identified by staff at the front entrance. It took him longer to walk back to the Institute than Alec anticipated; typically, Alec left early enough to not encounter such an issue, or, if it was getting too late, Magnus portalled him back. But in his panicked flight, Alec neglected to think through his own actions.

Which is how Alec finds himself shuffling through the front doors of the Institute at nearly one in the morning, wearing the same wrinkled clothes he has been since he had woken up at four and very conspicuously not meeting anyone’s eyes. It’s Oliver and Amelia on door duty, two of the friendlier shadowhunters that Alec has known for just around a decade. He remembers how Amelia had once caught Alec and Jace watching an unrated film, the two of them not even yet twelve, and she had merely smirked and walked away. He remembers how Oliver had found Alec, just thirteen years old, covered in bruises and ichor after having killed his first demon, and had ruffled his hair.

Their faces remain stubbornly stoic now, eyes refusing to make contact with Alec’s. Neither of them say anything, but Alec can hear what they would say as clearly as if they were shouting in his ears. The weight of the silence is suffocating between them. Alec wonders how such a minor yet fundamental part of himself can warrant such isolation from his own people, people who have watched him grow up. He wonders what Oliver and Amelia would think if they found out what made Alec the way he is; if the memories would be considered pitiful or shameful to them.

Alec decides to simply not say anything. Instead, he continues past them like they aren’t even there and ignores that empty feeling in his chest that has been spreading ever since he was a boy. At the rate he’s going, it isn’t likely to ever leave him.

Thankfully, the halls are blissfully empty of thinly veiled glares and snide under-the-breath comments. Alec is free to slink back to the safety of his room undisturbed; he can take a blistering hot shower, change into ratty sweats, and just collapse into bed with no more having to think about Magnus and that entire mess. Or, at least, that’s his plan. A plan that is ruined just feet from the sanctuary of his room.

“Alec!” Izzy calls from where she has obviously been waiting in the threshold of her own bedroom.

He feels his ears heat with embarrassment; Alec feels like some rebellious teen boy caught sneaking around by his parents. He’s suddenly angry at himself for feeling so much like a child the past day. Alec is twenty-three, he is old enough to keep his own damn emotions and life in check.

Regardless of how much he wants to ignore Izzy and retreat into his room, he dutifully turns to face his little sister with what he hopes is a tired but exasperated expression. Apparently, Alec isn’t a believable actor. The look Izzy levels at him is that same combination of worry and frustration that she gave him when Alec proposed to Lydia, the same look Izzy has been giving him on and off ever since.

It does nothing to comfort him, like she probably thinks it will. If anything, it merely makes Alec hate himself a little more. _Alec_ is the older sibling. _He_ is the one that is supposed to comfort her, not the other way around. Has Alec been so absorbed in his own life that he has neglected his little sister? She looks more tired than usual; typically, Izzy is the best at hiding any dark circles under her eyes, but now they are a stark contrast on her usually composed face.

“Izzy, is everything alright?” No matter how hollow Alec feels, how much his eyes sting from the urge to cry, he will never have to fake the concern in his voice. If his little sister is hurting, Alec will be the first to do something about it.

“Oh no, _hermano_ , not this time,” she wags a finger at him. “This time, I’m asking if _you’re_ alright. What’s wrong?”

A part of Alec longs to tell her, to let the words spill out in a jumbled mess, to let her wrap her arms around him and hold him, to cry against her shoulder. Alec recognizes that part of himself as the child that used to let Izzy and Jace sneak into his bed at night whenever they had nightmares. They haven’t been those children in many years, and Alec won’t be the one to yearn for times past.

“I’m fine, Izzy. Just tired,” he gives her a half-truth, hoping that it will be enough to deter her.

He really should know better than that.

“Magnus texted me,” she admits before he can turn away. “He wanted to make sure that you got back safely. What happened, Alec?” Izzy sounds more distressed by the minute.

“Nothing, Izzy. It’s nothing.”

Something in his voice or expression must show that he won’t talk. Izzy lets out a little sigh, her shoulders slipping lower as if she has failed. Alec wants to say that she hasn’t, that she is the best sister he could ask for, but his heart is heavy and his tongue numb. That haunting coldness is back and Alec just wants to wrap himself in what few blankets he has and sleep.

“Goodnight,” he says, ducking into his room before his sister can protest anymore.

Leaning against the door in the dark, Alec allows himself to let out a sigh that borders on becoming a sob. Suddenly exhausted from the day, he peels off his clothes and meticulously folds them up on a chair to deal with tomorrow. He flops onto his bed and worms his way under the covers, wrapping them tightly around him as if he can mimic the warmth of feeling safe. The last thing Alec thinks of is the mix of confusion, pain, and concern on Magnus’ face.

 

A hot breath ghosts over his neck, quickly followed by the light scraping of tongue and teeth. He can feel the fine hairs on his body stand up and his heart skips a beat. A sigh slips out, like a tidal wave that builds slowly deep in his chests and crashes against the shore. Somewhere beside his ear, a chuckle sounds, a soft caress of sound that feels like the first touches of sun in the morning.

It dawns on him that he’s completely bare, not a single thread of clothing on him, and yet he’s pleasantly warm. Beside him lays Magnus in the same state of undress. He’s pressed up along the length of Alec’s body, close enough that wherever golden brown meets his own paleness Alec thinks he can see the lines blur and shade into one another. If he just looks from his peripheries, he can almost pretend that they have become one, that the hollow ache in Alec’s chest has been filled to the brim with Magnus’ smile, and eyes, and laughter.

A hand trails up his abdomen, dancing enticingly around his nipples. When he whimpers and arches up into the touch, Magnus huffs out a laugh but obligingly pinches his fingers and rolls the hardening buds between them. He moves on before Alec is satisfied, however, fire spreading wherever his hands land. If Magnus could touch every inch of Alec’s skin, perhaps then that fire would linger and he would never have to be cold again.

All blood rushes down, the heat in the pit of his belly and the teasing touch of Magnus’ hands nearly make Alec feel like he will combust. He needs those nimble fingers wrapped around him, he longs to know what Magnus would feel like in his own hands, he yearns to take Magnus into his mouth like holy communion. Finally, _finally_ , Magnus blesses him with that cherished touch and Alec’s body scorches with heavenly flames.

Sheathed in Magnus’ hand, Alec can’t stop from thrusting. His breath catches deep in his throat, held there by some unknown force; his heart stumbles helplessly over its own beat, his skin prickles with every heated breath against his neck. If he could, he would capture this moment forever, seal it away in a glass jar to hold in his hands every time he needs a reminder of the glow he can feel now. But he wants to bask in the warmth, wants to tighten his arms around Magnus, wants to map out every dip and curve of his body. He needs more, always more, and Magnus willingly gives it; he speeds up, pushing Alec toward a ledge he can’t see the bottom of. And Alec wants, Alec _yearns._

And then it isn’t Magnus. And Alec isn’t himself. He is small and insignificant and unmarked by years of war. It isn’t beautiful sun-kissed skin that melds to his; it is sickly pale, marred by the white lines of scars and the thick black bands of runes. It isn’t Magnus, it _isn’t_. Alec doesn’t _want_ it anymore.

So why doesn’t it stop? Why does the coil in his stomach continues to tense, why does the fire in his veins quicken, why does his breath stop and his heart falter and his skin tingle? He wants it to stop, begs for it to end with a visceral sincerity that only a frightened child could express. Alec’s just some forgotten boy all over again, spoken over and ignored and hidden away like a dirty little secret. And oh, how he wishes he could flee from it all, the drag of calloused hands over soft flesh, the sting of tears in his clenched eyes, that quaking fear that chases away all rational thought and leaves him shaking and alone. But his body is the gravest traitor to his heart; it flushes under the scrutiny, shivers from the rank breaths, yearns for the release Alec hasn’t ever allowed himself.

He comes with a sob and jolts awake. He struggles against the tide of his orgasm, biting his lip hard enough that he tastes blood and futilely trying to quench the fire that burns under his skin. Another strangled whimper, more of a wheeze than anything, escapes even as his hips roll in time with the throbbing of his heartbeat. Alec pulls himself out of bed, his legs shaky and tangled in the sheets, and immediately collapses to his knees. But he can’t stop now; between too many tears and not enough breath, Alec drags himself to the bathroom, just in time to flip the toilet lid and retch. Bile spills out and he digs his fingers into the porcelain as if it can hold his stomach in.

He chokes on a sob and it triggers another gag. Alec can’t breathe; no matter how much air he tries to suck in, all he can feel is the shameful stain on his boxers and the tainted heat of his own skin. He doesn’t want it, this disgust that lingers; he has _never_ wanted it. Alec wants to cry, to scream, to shriek at the world for making him what he is and then hating him for it. He wants to give in to that wretched twist in his stomach and just die clinging to this toilet and never have to face anyone with the memories that claw through his brain. He wants- he wants-

He wants _Magnus._

Wants those strong arms banded around him, wants gentle kisses pressed into his hair, and soft laughter against his ear. Alec wants to fall asleep on Magnus’ couch, reading a book pilfered from his extensive library, only to wake up with the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen and a blanket draped over him. He wants Magnus to pick up all the shattered pieces of himself and hold him together, as if staying beside Magnus could infuse some warmth back into those empty, lifeless parts of himself.

But Alec can’t ask such things of his boyfriend, can’t take advantage of his kindness and compassion as if Alec deserves it. They have only been dating for several weeks. Magnus doesn’t need an emotionally crippled shadowhunter piling years of repressed trauma off onto him. Alec clearly hasn’t thought out this whole _relationship_ ordeal; maybe…maybe it would have been easier to just appease his parents and accept his marriage to Lydia. Maybe he wouldn’t have to face the confusion and the pain of childhood fears, maybe he could just force himself to ignore it and continue like he always has. Maybe then Magnus wouldn’t be rejected by a selfish boy who couldn’t even stand the thought of sex with him.

So Alec silently resolves himself to admit defeat, to cut ties with Magnus and forget that this entire mess ever happened, to retreat back into that damn closet and firmly lock the door. If he does that, maybe he can pass the previous month off as a simple dalliance, a late teenage rebellion. Maybe then his parents will forgive him, his coworkers will speak to him again, Alec can forget the feeling of cold hands on him, and Magnus…well, Magnus will no doubt forget about the foolish nephilim boy in a few decades anyway.

And, if ever those thoughts of the past violate Alec again, maybe he can pull out those memories of his time with Magnus, blow off the dust and hold them close to his chest, a glowing nightlight to beat back the nightmares. As they all apparently say, it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.

Alec drags himself to his feet and staggers over to the sink, splashing cold water on his face and hoping it washes away the terrors of the night. It wakes him up more, but it does little to affect the lingering thoughts. He eventually gives up and decides on a quick shower and a trip to the training room. Perhaps the repetitiveness of punching something could give him a sense of peace.

It’s just past four when he limps into the training room and sets up for an intense workout. Alec has already done seventy pushups, fifty squats, and is nearing one hundred strikes against the punching bag when Izzy stumbles in, as exhausted but wired as her brother clearly is. They stare at each other silently for several beats, before Alec grabs one of the padded gloves and puts it on, holding it at the perfect height for Izzy to hit.

She gladly falls into the rhythm of punches, neither of the siblings daring to break the silence aside from the sound of flesh hitting against vinyl. They switch off whenever one grows tired, until they give up with the glove and resort to sparring. Ten minutes into beating each other up, Izzy breaks the tenuous silence they have agreed upon.

“You look like shit, _hermano_ ,” she admits breathlessly, dodging one of his punches and responding with a kick.

Alec blocks her easily and grabs her foot, hoping to unbalance her. “Pot meet kettle, Izzy. Have you not looked in a mirror?”

She turns to avoid falling on her ass, twisting her legs and landing a knee against Alec’s ribs. “No need to be rude,” she mutters. “But I’m serious, Alec. You’ve been acting off the past few days. Talk to me.”

Wanting to avoid any such thing, he knocks his sister’s legs out from under her and pins her to the ground. He twists her arm against her back and keeps the pressure there until she taps the floor mat in surrender. Alec tries to get up and out of the training room before she can recover, but as he turns away, Izzy latches onto one of his legs and drags him down. He collapses beside her, and the two of them simultaneously come to the conclusion that they’re too tired to move anymore. They lay there, side by side on the sweat-stained exercise mat, neither of them talking but both of them questioning their own life choices with a mutual sense of dread.

“I haven’t been sleeping.” Alec’s voice is a near silent confession, almost lost in the spacious room and it’s only because Izzy is waiting for it that she catches the words. “I’ve been having these- these nightmares.”

Izzy waits to see if her reticent brother will explain further, but when it becomes apparent that he won’t say anymore, she lets out a sigh. “Alec,” she starts softly, “you are one of the strongest people I know.” Here, she turns her head and doesn’t continue until her brother meets her gaze. “But you don’t always _have_ to be. I will always be here for you, and so will Jace. It’s okay to come _talk_ to us when you need us.” Izzy’s voice takes on a distinctly teary quality, one that they both choose to promptly ignore.

Alec can’t meet her eye any longer, and he reluctantly pulls his gaze away, as if doing so is admitting defeat.

“I know that you still consider it your duty to protect me and Jace,” she goes on, refusing to stop in light of Alec’s discomfiture. “And, maybe because of that, you feel like you can’t admit any of your fears to us. So talk to Magnus. We both know that he cares about you, that he would be willing to listen. Just talk to _someone_ , because I love you, Alec, and it hurts me to see you hurting.”

A heavy silence falls over them, and Alec can definitely hear the tears in Izzy’s voice now. “When did you get so sappy?” he finally whispers, hoping to diffuse some of the tension between them.

Izzy snorts out a laugh. Maybe to someone else, it would sound gross, but it reminds Alec of the goofy child his sister had once been, the little girl who used to laugh so hard that she would snort and then laugh even harder. When had Izzy stopped doing that? Alec can’t remember, but it was probably around the time he had started feeling hollow inside.

“I love you, too,” he adds, and the words aren’t difficult to say at all. In fact, they are probably the easiest words Alec has ever said, a truth so ingrained in him that it’s a fundamental part of his soul.

She pats his shoulder before sharing a playful grimace and standing up. “Not that I don’t love this sibling bonding session we have going on, but it’s finally becoming a reasonable time to be awake and we have a whole day of demon-hunting to get to, big brother.”

Alec returns the wry grimace and likewise drags himself off of the ground to prepare for the day. The siblings return to their respective rooms side-by-side, but even as Alec showers and dresses, Izzy’s words of advice bounce around in his head.

How can you talk to someone when the very words are a poison to your heart?

* * *

 

Alec lasts all of three days before he breaks. Three nights of unsettling, unwanted dreams. Three mornings of cold showers and rigorous exercise routines. Three days of exhausted demon-hunting. It’s on the fourth day, eyelids as heavy as his heart, that Alec finds himself in front of Magnus’ apartment.

Where he’s been pacing indecisively for twelve minutes now. He pauses at the door, hand poised to knock, and then abruptly turns away. But before he can flee the building, he takes a deep breath and resolves once more to try and face his fears. It’s a vicious, never-ending cycle that Alec can’t seem to escape.

Finally, after what has been the twentieth repetition, he follows through and raps his knuckles against the wood. The noise is swiftly cut off when the door swings open, as if Magnus has been waiting just on the other side. Alec, faced with those wise and knowledgeable eyes, suddenly feels like a deer caught in the headlights. How is he supposed to reveal his darkest secret when he can barely even knock on his boyfriend’s door?

“Alexander,” Magnus breathes, and if Alec were less panicked, he would notice the raw relief in the warlock’s tone. Magnus pulls back and invites him in with an ease that Alec can’t quite understand, as if Alec hasn’t run away and subsequently avoided all contact with his boyfriend for several days. But if Magnus is at all put off by the younger man’s obvious hesitance, he doesn’t mention it - a fact that Alec is immediately grateful for.

Alec hesitantly steps past the threshold, feeling as if he’s a stranger invading Magnus’ home. It’s odd; just days ago, Alec felt more at ease in the loft than anywhere else in the world. Now, he subconsciously slips into the parade rest posture as he so often does, like he’s preparing for some war. He realizes that this will be his toughest battle yet.

“We need to talk,” Alec starts, only to immediately wince at his own wording. “Not- not like- like _that_ , I didn’t mean that,” he stumbles over his own explanation, his cheeks heating up in a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. “I meant- I meant that I have to- there’s something-” his words fail him, and Alec lets out an aggrieved huff before taking a breath and trying again. “I need to tell you something.”

Magnus patiently waits until Alec’s finished. “Alright,” he agrees, as if it’s that simple. Magnus gestures for them to take a seat on the couch but is conspicuously careful not to touch Alec on the way. Alec doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. “Tea?” the warlock asks once they sit down.

Alec nods absent-mindedly, too busy ruminating on how he’s going to explain everything to his boyfriend. If he weren’t so deep in his own mind, Alec would notice Magnus’ own anxiety as he conjures up steaming cups of tea for the two of them. As it is, Alec delicately holds the teacup, hoping that the warmth that seeps out of the porcelain will banish that chill deep in his gut.

Several minutes pass in a still silence, Alec trying - and failing - to build up his courage and Magnus attempting to wait patiently. The tension between them grows, all while Alec’s courage rapidly shrinks.

“Alexander,” Magnus breaks first, hesitance and concern clear in his tone. He doesn’t know what has seeped in and soured their relationship, but he knows that he never wants to see Alec this upset. “I am here for you whenever you are ready to talk. It doesn’t have to be right now,” he assures.

“No I- Magnus I- I _want_ to tell you,” Alec is quick to say. “It’s just- it’s just that I’ve never told anyone and I don’t know- where do I even start?”

“Take as much time as you need,” the warlock offers, and then resolves to stay quiet for the length of Alec’s story.

Alec takes several deep breaths and rubs his hands down his thighs, hoping that it will calm his racing heart a little. Alec is growing sick of the cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’s been running and hiding from the truth for nearly a decade. Perhaps now, with Magnus there to listen, he can finally talk about that pain. Perhaps he can finally banish those treacherous nightmares, the phantoms that haunt him, the intrusive thoughts that invade him constantly.

“It all began back when I was around six, I guess. The Institute had received a new shadowhunter that served as mine and Izzy’s tutor. Hodge taught us how to fight, but _he_ taught us in the more academic fields. His name was-” Here, Alec has to pause and take a sip of his tea, as if he can wash out the bile suddenly rising in his throat. He can’t, so he spits the name out as if it’s venom. “ _Thomas Hightower._

“Hightower was…well, he was pretty popular in the Institute. Charming, intelligent, sociable. He used to sneak candy to us during our lessons. After a few years, he had become part of the family, and Izzy and I ended up calling him _Uncle Tommy.”_

Alec’s voice is distinctly clinical, as if he’s giving a patrol report instead of telling a part of his life story. It’s unsettling and it chills Magnus to the bone; he doesn’t know what else to do but continue to listen with a sense of fascinated dread, like people who can’t help but watch a train wreck.

“I was a quiet kid. Did well in lessons, did what I was told when I was told. The forgettable sort of kid, especially compared to a talkative Izzy and an obnoxious Jace.” Alec lets out a small huff of breath that may be a laugh, but it’s a bitter and hollow sort of sound. “So I never really got much attention; I thought that I was content with that. I- um, I guess- I guess I was wrong, though.

“Right around the time I turned twelve, Hightower started taking more interest in me. He complimented me more, he preferred my answers over Izzy and Jace’s, he would give _me_ more attention than them. I remember Izzy complaining about favoritism and Jace retaliating by not doing any of his homework. But none of us- we didn’t really know what it was all about.”

Now that the words have started, it feels as if they come tumbling forcefully from deep within Alec, as if he can’t stop even if he wants to. “It- it started with- well it was innocent things. Extra candies, shoulder pats, hair ruffles, that sort of thing. Shadowhunter families aren’t exactly known for being… _affectionate_ , I guess. But Hightower was so open with his affection. Just for me, though. And I soaked I up, I _loved_ it; it was everything I didn’t know I had wanted. I guess even child soldiers want to be hugged.”

When Alec dares to look up, Magnus has a pained expression on his face, as if he longs to hold Alec, longs to find that little boy Alec had once been and hold him as well. But Alec feels an emptiness where he’s certain misery and hurt belong. Like he’s taken the agony in the past and purposefully misplaced it, so that there’s only the vague impression of pain left behind. Alec’s a soldier, born and raised, so he soldiers on.

“I didn’t realize. Not until much later. But he was- he had been _grooming_ me. Getting me used to him, building up my trust. Touches lasted longer, he found ways to get us alone, he made me feel dependent on him. And then- then there were a few days where my parents were in Idris. They had taken Jace and Izzy and Max, but I was left behind. I-I don’t remember why. And Hightower- he. He-” Alec’s voice cracks, his eyes sting, he can’t breathe, but the words find a way out regardless.

_“He molested me.”_

Tea splashes over the rim of Alec’s cup. He watches it splatter against the white rug with a detached feeling in his chest. His hands are shaking. When did that happen? He’s an archer, his hands are always steady. There’s a dark stain on Magnus’ rug. Alec stares at it and hates himself. He’s making a mess of Magnus’ loft, of Magnus’ life. He needs to clean it up; his hands twitch with the compulsive _need_. Does bleach work on tea? (Does it work on the past?)

Hands wrap around his own, steadying the trembling. They’re gentle and warm, and Alec abruptly realizes how cold he feels. It’s an icy ache that leaves numbness in its wake. Magnus carefully extricates the cup from Alec’s grip to set it on the table, and then waves a bit of his magic over Alec’s hands. There’s tea on them, still hot enough to burn. How has he not noticed? Magnus smooths his thumbs over where the flesh is a soft pink.

“I’m- I’m sorry,” Alec manages to get out. “About,” he gestures at the ground, flailing a bit desperately, “about the tea. And. And about-”

“Alexander,” Magnus interrupts. “Alexander, look at me please.”

Alec doesn’t want to, he _can’t_. Magnus knows now. Knows how broken, how tainted Alec is. Would Magnus turn him away? He hasn’t minded Alec’s lack of experience, but what about now that it’s a lie? That Alec _does_ have experience and it’s twisted and loathsome?

Fingers gently lift Alec’s chin, until he’s looking into Magnus’ eyes. There are tears threatening to spill over but they’re tempered by a tenderness that makes Alec’s heart ache. He only realizes that he’s crying once Magnus brushes the tears away.

 _“Magnus,”_ he croaks out, clutching at his boyfriend’s sleeves like a terrified child.

“It was not your fault,” Magnus insisted, peering so intently into Alec’s eyes that he feels pinned by the gaze. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

There, with his face cradled between Magnus’ hands, Alec almost allows himself to feel cherished. Like he isn’t stained by Hightower’s touch, broken by the dreams he’s been having. Alec tries to focus on Magnus, on the warmth that originates from him and spreads through Alec’s limbs, but all he can think of is the sensation of phantom hands and the hollowness deep in his chest.

“What do you need from me?” Magnus asks softly. “Tell me what you need.”

Alec doesn’t _know._ What could possibly make the pain go away, now that it’s burning like a raw, gaping wound, freshly opened for the first time since he was a child? Alec’s shattering into countless jagged little pieces. How could he ask Magnus to help pick all of them up and hold him together; how could he ever ask Magnus to cut his hands on all the sharp edges left behind? Alec doesn’t know how to make the pain stop, how to forget the feeling of unwanted hands on him, how to act like he’s okay even when he _isn’t._

All Alec knows is that he’s cold, that he’s been cold ever since Hightower had taken his sense of security away. All Alec knows is that Magnus makes him remember what it’s like to be warm. It’s Magnus who banishes the cold, who fills Alec with love until he no longer feels quite so hollow inside.

“Will you- I need- can you _hold me?_ ” Alec murmurs, ashamed of the words even as they feel so right.

“Of course,” Magnus responds immediately, sliding his hands around to Alec’s back and cradling the shadowhunter against himself. He bands one arm up the span of Alec’s back and cards his fingers through his hair, holding him as tightly as he dares and pressing his lips to the crown of Alec’s head.

Alec buries his face in the crook of Magnus’ neck and lets the shaking of his shoulders and the burn of tears in his eyes take over. He clutches desperately at Magnus’ jacket until his knuckles are white. A small part of him hates that he still yearns for the safety and affection of Magnus’ embrace, like he’s some child incapable of comforting himself. But a far larger part of him relishes in the strength of Magnus’ arms and the security of the words murmured into his ear. Hushed little reminders, of how Magnus is there, of how Alec is safe now, of how _brave and strong_ Alec is. From anyone else, Alec would think them to be empty words. But coming from Magnus, Alec finds that he can almost believe it.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, curled against one another on Magnus’ couch. But eventually Alec feels his breathing relax to a healthy pace, feels the tension eke out until he’s practically boneless in his boyfriend’s arms. Magnus resolutely keeps his hold on Alec, however, his hands still gently rubbing Alec’s back and his fingers lightly carding through his hair, his lips pressing intermittent kisses against his temple.

In that one infinite moment, Alec allows himself to simply _be._ Where his forehead and nose are flush against the warlock’s neck, he revels in the scent of sandalwood and spice. His eyes are damp and tacky and Alec knows that he got tears - and, admittedly, some snot - on Magnus’ jacket, but he’s far too exhausted and weary to care. His hands have loosened their grip, until they lay uselessly on either side of him.

“There’s-” Alec’s voice crackles, his throat sore from misuse, “there’s still more. What he- the things he did to me. But I-I _can’t-_ ”

Magnus’ arms tighten around him, as if he can hold the younger man together through sheer force of will. “You don’t have to talk about it now,” he assures. “You have been so strong in saying what you have. We can work through the rest when you’re ready.”

Alec reluctantly pulls away and immediately feels a chill creep back in. Magnus willingly loosens his hold, for which Alec is relieved. Although Alec has retreated from the embrace specifically to look Magnus in the eyes, he now can’t convince himself to and instead focuses on his own hands in his lap.

“So, you’re not… _upset?”_ he dares to ask. It suddenly seems so likely that Magnus will be, even though Alec logically _knows_ that all the evidence is contrary to the belief. Perhaps, in the midst of such emotional turmoil and the remembrance of childhood traumas, perhaps it’s something that needs to be uttered aloud so that it can become tangible.

“I am upset,” Magnus admits wearily. The world tilts violently beneath Alec and all his breath rushes out of his lungs. “But not at _you_ , Alexander,” he hurries to explain, picking up his boyfriend’s hands in his own and threading their fingers together. “I’m upset that some _monster_ would ever touch a child, would ever touch _you_ , like that. I’m upset that you felt you had no one to talk to, that you kept all of this to yourself for so long. I’m upset that you’re _hurting_ and that I can’t take away your pain.”

For all that Alec has cried more today than he has in years, he still somehow feels the prickling of more tears in his eyes. They’re tears of frustration, however. Frustration that Alec can’t just immediately feel better, frustration that he can’t articulate what he needs said, frustration that he can’t make Magnus understand. How is it that Magnus can still be so eloquent when Alec can hardly get through two words without stumbling over them?

“But I-” Alec takes a steadying breath and lets it out in a huff, trying and failing to voice his thoughts. Magnus remains a quiet presence at his side, tightening his grip on Alec’s hands but not interrupting him any further. Alec thinks of the dreams he’s been having, equal parts tempting and unsettling. “Magnus, I- I _want_ to- to have sex with you,” the words run together in a blur, as if - of all the things spoken that night - this confession is somehow the gravest. “But I _can’t_. And- and maybe I _won’t_ ever be able to. So, I can’t- I can’t give my whole self to you and I’m sorry, I’m so sor-”

“Alexander,” Magnus cuts him off, tone firm but unbearably tender. He cups Alec’s face in his hands and forces their eyes to meet. Alec is surprised to see that the look in Magnus’ face is as wrecked and devastated as Alec feels. The warlock’s typically immaculate makeup is smudged around his eyes and there are tracks of black steaking down his cheeks from where tears have fallen. “My sweet, darling Alexander.” Alec feels his heart quiver and he wonders if he’s ever been called _sweet_ or _darling_ before. “I don’t care about sex. I care about you and about us being together, in whatever capacity we _both_ feel comfortable with. And if we never get to that step, then we never get to that step. That’s completely alright with me.”

It shouldn’t be such a difficult concept for Alec to grasp, but the problem is that it _is_. Blame it on Hightower, or his parents, or the Institute, or the Clave, or maybe all of them. But along the course of his life, Alec has been taught again and again to push past his many inadequacies and force himself to be better, always _better_ because he can never be _good enough_.

And yet, here’s Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn, telling Alec that he’s just that. That Alec is what Magnus wants, just as he is, broken pieces and all.

It isn’t something that Alec’s used to and in order to avoid talking about it more, he falls gracelessly back into Magnus’ embrace. His forehead knocks a little too harshly against the warlock’s jaw, and Alec’s nose is smashed against his neck, and both of them are turned toward each other at awkward angles. But neither of them seem to mind, and they remain clinging to the other as if it’s the only thing keeping them together.

How do you forgive yourself for something that isn’t your fault?

* * *

 

Golden light filters in and bathes the apartment in a soft glow. The distant sounds of early morning traffic mingle with the gentle tinkling of wind chimes from the balcony. Alec becomes aware that he’s laying curled up on Magnus’ couch. It’s bordering on uncomfortable, being that Alec is taller than the couch is long, but he’s wrapped in an indulgent blanket and his head is pillowed on a solid mass that radiates warmth and comfort.

He doesn’t want to open his eyes. He wants to burrow deeper into the sensation of being safe and remain in this moment for the rest of his life. Fingers carding through his hair and gently scraping against his scalp suddenly drag Alec into reality. It’s then that he realizes the predicament he’s in.

He’s laying with his face planted in Magnus’ lap. And he’s drooling. In the span of twelve hours, he’s gotten tears, snot, and now drool on the warlock’s outfit - which no doubt costs more than Alec’s entire wardrobe. Not to mention the whole having an emotional breakdown and unloading nearly a decade’s worth of trauma on his boyfriend of mere _weeks._

And he’s absolutely late for work.

Alec twists around and tries to escape from the blanket wrapped around him. But between the blanket, Alec’s grogginess, and Magnus’ unrelenting presence, Alec ends up just laying so that he’s looking straight up into Magnus’ eyes. The shadowhunter immediately feels guilt and shame well up like bile, seeing how smudged Magnus’ makeup is and how messy his hair is. He attempts to avoid eye contact with his boyfriend, but it’s impossible with how he’s trapped.

“Magnus,” he croaks out quietly, throat sore from disuse and from crying the night before.

“Good morning,” Magnus murmurs back, the tenderness in his voice so genuine that it’s painful.

“I have to- to get to the Institute,” Alec tries to sit up, but is patiently soothed back down against Magnus’ thighs.

“I texted Isabelle,” the warlock explains, “and we both agreed that, what with you having the flu, it would be best if you took the day off.” He lays the back of his hand over Alec’s forehead and tuts softly.

Alec would protest - _should_ protest - but his head is stuffy and his eyes are crusted and he feels like he hasn’t really slept in a week or two. So, just this once, he allows his reputation of always showing up for work slide.

“You didn’t have to stay like that all night,” Alec continues worriedly. Surely it couldn’t have been comfortable for Magnus to sleep sitting up with Alec’s dead weight dropped into his lap. With everything Alec has asked from Magnus, he didn’t mean to burden him all night just because he needed to cry a little bit.

“Where else would I be, darling?” he says it as if the answer is blindingly obvious. As if there’s clearly no other place in the world that Magnus Bane would be than holding his shadowhunter boyfriend as he sleeps.

It’s this that finally coerces a smile from Alec’s lips. A real, genuine smile that he hasn’t worn in what feels like years. A laugh bubbles out; it’s cracked and sounds awful to his ears, but Magnus practically beams at the sound and joins in until the two are wrapped around each other and laughing with tears in their eyes.

“Thank you,” Alec breathes, peppering kisses to every inch of Magnus’ skin he can reach. “Thank you.”

He feels lighter, like a weight he didn’t know was there has been lifted from his shoulders. The empty feeling in his chest is less all-consuming, the chill can be weathered with enough blankets, the hands can be replaced with Magnus’ tender touches. He feels like maybe the pain is something he can grow to overcome, like for the first time since he was twelve he isn’t completely helpless and lost.

There are still traces of that wretched hollowness, lost deep inside of Alec. The warmth is only a temporary fix. Hands from the past and whispered words of hatred and disgust linger. But there now exists a reassurance that Alec isn’t _alone_. That there’s someone who can - and _will_ \- support him and hold his hand and just _be there_. Perhaps that’s all Alec has ever needed from someone.

How do you pick up the pieces after being broken?

You find someone who is willing to help hold those pieces in their arms, regardless of how jagged or sharp the edges may be. You find someone who will hand you the tape and glue as you try to put yourself back together. You find someone who will let you get tears, and snot, and drool on their nice jackets without complaint, who will let you cuddle with them on their couch all night, who will scheme with your sister to get you a day off work, who will smile even at the ugly parts of yourself.

You find someone who accepts you, broken pieces and all.

**Author's Note:**

> If I have forgotten to tag any relevant warnings or triggers, please inform me and I will correct it. I have personally never been affected by this type of abuse, nor do I have any friends that I am close enough with that have been through this. That being said, I have tried my hardest to represent the trauma of child molestation in the most sensitive and respectful manner that I could. If I misrepresented anything or offended in any way, please let me know and I will do my best to correct any mistakes.
> 
> The title comes from the Latin phrase "ius primae noctis," meaning "the right of the first night." It was supposedly a law in medieval Europe that allowed a lord to have sexual relations with subordinate women before their marriage. It's not the greatest comparison, but I'm terrible at titles.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this story (and by that I mean I hope you all suffered as much as I did while writing it). Thank you all very much for reading!
> 
> ~PNGuin


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